No Highway Page 9

  Miss Corder came to take away his tray. She bent to him, and asked, “Would you like another cup? I’ve got some more hot milk all ready, if you’d like it.”

  He said, “No, I’ve done excellently, thank you.” He blinked up at her through his thick glasses. “It’s been terribly kind of you to take all this trouble.”

  She smiled at him, “Oh no, sir. I’m so sorry you’ve got all this worry on your shoulders.”

  This dark, kind girl would go too, when it happened. “Are you married?” he enquired.

  She stared at him in wonder; surely he wasn’t one of those? She laughed. “Me married?” she said. “No.”

  “That’s a good thing,” he said quietly. “Nor am I. There won’t be a lot of trouble over us.”

  The meaning of his words got through to her in a short pause. She hesitated for an instant, not knowing how to take it. She reached for a rug. “Let me put your chair back for you and put this over you,” she said. “Then you’ll probably get a little sleep.”

  She helped him to arrange his chair and tucked the rug around him; then she took the tray and went back to the galley. A quarter of an hour later she said to the other stewardess, “I’m going up to the flight deck. Keep an eye on No. 11 for me, will you—Mr. Honey. I think he’s asleep.”

  “That’s the boffin? Is he liable to cut his throat, or anything?”

  Miss Corder said, “No, he’s not. He’s just a little, worried man, that’s all. I’ll be back in a few minutes. I just want to tell Dobson how he’s going on.”

  Mr. Honey lay relaxed in his reclining chair. He did not want to sleep, so little time was left he had no use for that. His mind drifted to the accident as it would happen, objective and dispassionate. He began to calculate in his head, as he had calculated all his working life.

  The download on the tail in this condition he knew to be about 6,000 lb. Assuming half of the tail failed only, leaving the rest of the plane intact, that meant a nose-down pitching moment of, say, 300,000 lb.-feet. He did not know the power of the one remaining elevator, but he guessed it might provide one half of that. The balance of the nose-down moment would be satisfied by an increase of speed, by diviner till the forces came in equilibrium. He figured for a time and came to the conclusion that a diving speed of 420 m.p.h., attainable at perhaps 7° of flight path to the horizontal, would be somewhere near it. With the maximum control that would be left to him, the pilot would not be able to do better for them than to dive at over four hundred miles an hour until he hit the sea.

  He wondered what would happen when they hit. At that small angle they might well bounce up again and not plunge straight in, though there seemed to be a likelihood that the wings would be torn off. They might bounce once or twice, reducing speed each time. The impacts and decelerations would be very violent. After that the fuselage might float for a few moments before sinking; if anybody had survived the crash they might be able to get out into the sea, to float about in lifebelts till they died of cold. There was only one chance in a million that there would be a ship in the vicinity that could help, even if anyone got out.

  He put all thought of safety from him; when it happened he would die. Now that he had become used to the idea he did not mind about that much; his mind was filled with memories of Mary. His life since Mary died had not been happy; he had no great ambition to hold on to it. Mary had gone before him; somehow, somewhere he would catch up with her again. Again they would go on hiking on long summer days over the Hog’s Back, drink beer in little pubs together after the day’s march, make love, go Morris dancing together with little bells and ribbons at the knee, buy a new enlarger and play with it together, go to the pictures and see all their favourites, David Niven, Monica Teasdale …

  Monica Teasdale …

  He thought ingeniously that it would be something to tell Mary when he met her, that he had seen Monica Teasdale in the flesh; she would be thrilled. His young wife was very real to him still. His mind dwelt on the actress, on her parts that they had seen together in the years gone by, on the pleasure she had given Mary. And suddenly it seemed to him to be important that the actress should be saved in the disaster that was coming to them all. He could not meet his Mary and tell her that he had neglected to do what was possible for Monica Teasdale, whom she had loved so well. All his knowledge must be used to save Miss Teasdale’s life, or at any rate to give her a fighting chance of survival. He knew one place within the aircraft where a passenger could survive the impact with the water when it came. If then she drowned, well, that was just too bad, but with his knowledge he could get her through the crash.

  He leaned up on one elbow and turned to look across the aisle to where the actress was reclining. She was not asleep, she was lying there awake, smoking a cigarette. There was an empty seat beside her.

  He turned back his rug and got up, and moved down the aisle to her, and said, “Please, Miss Teasdale, may I talk to you for a few moments?”

  The shadow of a frown crossed her face; one travelled by air to get away from all that sort of thing. She had been at rest before this uncouth little man with the weak eyes had come to bother her. Then her professional charm took over and she withdrew herself within its mantle, and spoke the phrases she had used so often that they came mechanically. Half of her, at least, could go on resting while she said, “Why certainly, I’d be pleased.” She spoke with a slight mid-Western accent.

  He sat down beside her and plunged straight into his story. “Miss Teasdale, my name is Honey. I’m a research worker at the R.A.E.—the Royal Aircraft Establishment—that’s the British experimental station for aeroplanes at Farnborough, you know. I’ve been doing some experiments recently on the tailplane of the Reindeer aircraft—that’s this aircraft that we’re travelling in now. I’m afraid we’re all in rather a dangerous position.”

  She said impassively, “Is that so?” She noted his nervous movements, his excited urgency. It was a nuisance that she had attracted an unbalanced fan; in her career she had had that before, several times. She lay listening to him with one part of her mind only, waiting for an opportunity to be delivered from the nuisance of this wretched little man, making a soothing comment now and then.

  Miss Corder, coming down into the cabin from the flight deck, was surprised and concerned to see that Mr. Honey’s seat was empty. She spotted him immediately talking to the actress and her lips tightened; she should have thought of that. Unbalanced people always made for actresses. As she approached them Miss Teasdale raised her eyebrows slightly in appeal; the stewardess stopped by the double seat and to her horror heard the actress say lazily:

  “Mr. Honey, can’t I use the Ladies’ Toilet? It seems more kind of suitable.”

  He said earnestly, “You see, the galley stove is up against the bulkhead of the other one, and that makes the bulkhead firm——” It was at that point that Miss Corder touched him on the arm, and said, “Mr. Honey, I’m sure Miss Teasdale wants to get some sleep. Will you come back to your own seat?”

  He stared up at her, hurt and affronted. “I’ve been trying …” He glanced at the actress; she lay impassive and uninterested, her face a mask of indifference. “I’m sorry,” he said with some dignity. “I was only trying to help.”

  “I’m sure you were,” Miss Teasdale said. “Some other time, perhaps …”

  Without a word Mr. Honey got up and went back to his seat, his face crimson. Miss Corder followed him, and tucked the rug around him once again. “You shouldn’t have done that,” she said quietly. “You mustn’t go alarming other passengers, Mr. Honey. Will you promise me not to do that again? Promise to stay quiet in this seat?”

  He said bitterly, “If you say so. There’s one place in this aircraft where a human body would be safe in the deceleration of a crash. I was trying to tell her what to do if things look bad. But if she doesn’t want to know, I can’t do more.”

  The girl said, “If I get you a small pill to help you get some sleep, will you take it?”


  He said, “No, I don’t want that.”

  “Will you promise not to talk to any of the other passengers?”

  He knew that she was doing her duty; he knew that she was doing it with kindness and with tact. He warmed towards her in spite of the role of prisoner and warder that they were assuming. “All right,” he said. “I won’t talk to anyone again.” He glanced up at her thoughtfully. “What’s your name?”

  She smiled down at him. “Corder,” she said. “Marjorie Corder. What do you want to know that for?” It was her object to make him talk, to get his mind on something different from the accident he thought was going to happen.

  He said quietly, “You’ve been very nice to me, Miss Corder. I’d like to do something for you. Will you listen if I tell you what I was trying to tell Miss Teasdale?”

  She said, “Of course I will. But after that, will you try and get some sleep?”

  He motioned to the empty chair beside him. “Sit down there for a minute.”

  She hesitated, and then sat down on the edge of the seat, turned towards him. “What is it?” she asked.

  He said evenly, “I think this aircraft’s going to crash in the next hour or so. You don’t, nor does Captain Samuelson, nor anybody here. But I know more about it than the lot of you, and that is what I think. When that happens, there may be about three minutes from the time when you first know that something has gone wrong until the moment that we hit the sea.”

  He paused. “We shall most of us be killed,” he said quietly. “We shall die with the deceleration of the crash. There’s just one place to go to where a person could avoid that, and get out unhurt into the sea in a lifebelt. That doesn’t give much chance for living, even then, but it’s a better chance than all the rest of us will have. If I tell you where to go and what to do, will you do it?”

  She said, “Mr. Honey, all this isn’t going to happen, really it’s not. But if it did, I’ve got my jobs to do.”

  He said, “If I tell you, will you listen?”

  She nodded.

  He said. “You must go into the Gentlemen’s Toilet and sit down on the floor facing to the tail, with your back against the forward bulkhead and your head back in contact with the bulkhead, too. I was trying to tell this to Miss Teasdale, but she wouldn’t listen. Get a pad of something—a towel or a blanket, and put it behind your head. The stove behind that bulkhead will hold it firm for the instant of the crash, and your body will be well supported. If you do that, you’ll live through the impact. You must have your lifebelt on. When the machine comes to rest, before it sinks, pull down the emergency hatch in the toilet roof, and get out at once. Don’t stay to try and help the rest of us, or you’ll be trapped and drown. Get out immediately the motion stops. There’s just a chance you may be picked up when dawn comes.”

  She stared at him. “Is that what you were trying to tell Miss Teasdale?”

  “That’s right,” he said. “She doesn’t want to know. But will you remember what to do, if what I say is true?”

  She said, “I’ll remember, Mr. Honey. But I don’t say I’ll be able to do it.”

  “Do your best,” he said quietly. “If you get through this and we don’t, get yourself married and bring up a family. I think you’d be good at that.”

  She coloured a little, and laughed. “Will you go to sleep now, if I leave you?”

  “No,” said Mr. Honey. “But I’ll lie down, if you say.”

  “I do say,” she replied. She arranged the rug around him and saw that he was comfortable; then she turned away behind him down the aisle, her forehead furrowed deep with thought. For a madman, he was damnably convincing.

  She stopped by the actress and said quietly, “I’m so sorry you were troubled in that way, Miss Teasdale. It won’t happen again.”

  The woman turned her head, and said, “Don’t think of it. Is the little man nuts?”

  “I’m afraid so,” said the stewardess. “He seems to have some rather odd ideas. But he’s quite quiet now.”

  “I’ll say he’s got some odd ideas,” the actress said. “He was trying to make me go into the Men’s Room and sit down on the floor. If that’s not an odd idea, I’d like to hear one.”

  Miss Corder felt she could not leave the matter in that state. “He’s not as mad as all that,” she explained. “He was trying to tell you what you ought to do if—” she hesitated “—well, if anything should happen to make you feel that an accident was going to take place. It’s probably true enough that in an accident the safest place would be sitting on the floor in there with your back against the bulkhead. He was trying to do his best for you.”

  Miss Teasdale was more wide awake now. “Well, that was nice of him,” she said. “Who is the little guy anyway—apart from being nuts and apart from being a fan? Do you know anything about him?”

  “Oh yes. He’s a scientist from the Royal Aircraft Establishment, at Farnborough. He’s an expert upon aeroplanes.”

  “Well, what do you know? And he thinks that we’re going to have a crash?”

  Miss Corder said, “Oh, nothing like that, Miss Teasdale. It’s just that he’s got into rather a nervous state. You mustn’t pay any attention to him. I’m so sorry that he came and troubled you.”

  The actress stared at her, and then sat up. “He’s not the only passenger that’s in a nervous state right now,” she said.

  4

  MISS CORDER HAD a momentary, sickening feeling that the situation amongst her passengers was getting out of control. She made a valiant effort to restore it. “There’s no need to think of it again. Miss Teasdale,” she said brightly. “Captain Samuelson himself has had a long talk with this passenger, and I’m afraid there is no doubt that he’s a little bit unbalanced. It’s probably the altitude or something. But he’s quite quiet now.”

  “More than I am,” said the actress. She was sitting up and smoothing out her clothes. “If I’m going to meet my Maker, I won’t go with my nylons down round my ankles. Say, where in heck did my shoes get to? Oh, thanks a lot.” She studied her face in the mirror of her powder compact. “I was a darned fool not to travel in a U.S. airplane,” she observed. “But you haven’t had so many accidents lately, and I thought I’d be safer. That’s how one gets caught.”

  Marjorie Corder said, “I assure you, Miss Teasdale, there’s nothing in what Mr. Honey says. There’s no chance of any accident. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

  The actress said a little sharply, “Look, this scientist from Farnborough thinks this airplane’s going to crack up pretty soon, and Captain Samuelson, he thinks it isn’t going to crack up. And now you come along to give the casting vote, and put it with the captain’s. Well, just you run along and get that cup of coffee, and bring it to me over there. You say his name is Honey? It would be. I’m going visiting with Mr. Honey; bring my coffee there.”

  The stewardess said anxiously, “I wouldn’t go and talk to him, Miss Teasdale—really. It’ll only excite him again.”

  “I can handle that, my girl,” the actress said. “Just you go right down and get that coffee.”

  Miss Corder hesitated, but there was nothing she could do against this strong-willed woman, twenty years older than herself. She went to get the coffee.

  Miss Teasdale finished her appearance to her satisfaction and got up, and moved up the quiet aisle of the saloon to Mr. Honey’s seat. He was lying wide awake, in rather bitter reflection. He stirred as she approached, and looked up in surprise. It was about half-past three in the morning. The Reindeer was still flying steadily and quietly on course, above the overcast seen faintly down beneath them in the starlight.

  Miss Teasdale said, “Mr. Honey, do you mind if I sit down here for a while?” He sat up, blinking at her through his glasses. “I was half asleep when you were talking just now, and maybe I was just a little bit rude. I didn’t mean to be, but you know how it is.”

  He said, “Oh, please—don’t think of it. Do sit down.” He was a little flustered and confused. He
had seen Monica Teasdale so often in the past upon the screen, had been stirred to deep emotion by her parts so many times, that he had difficulty now in knowing what to say to her in the flesh. When he had crossed the aisle to speak to her he had been carried away by the impulse to do something for the safety of this woman; he had something definite to tell her. Now he was flustered and nonplussed.

  She said, “That’s real nice of you.” She sat down and turned to him. “Say, when you started talking about going into the Men’s Room, Mr. Honey, I thought you were plain nuts. But then that stewardess came along and told me one or two things, and then it seemed to me that maybe I was nuts myself for having brushed you off. Would you mind starting off and say your piece again?”

  He blinked at her through the thick glasses. This was not the ethereal girl that he had known upon the screen, the Madonna-like heroine of Temptation. This was someone very different, but someone who was out to make amends for a discourtesy, someone who was trying to be pleasant.

  He said, “I’m sorry—I’m afraid I ought not to have alarmed you, Miss Teasdale. I was just trying to help.”

  She nodded slightly. She had had this so often, but more with adolescents than with grown-up men. Fans went to every kind of trouble to speak to her, but when she stopped and met them half-way they could only stammer platitudes, with nothing to say, so that she had to help them out of their embarrassment. She set herself to help out Mr. Honey, and she said,

  “The stewardess, she told me that you work at airplane research, Mr. Honey? Is that the sort of work they do at Langley Field?”

  He turned to her, pleased and surprised. “Not quite,” he said. “My work is on structures, more like what they do at Wright Field. We’ve got the whole of that work concentrated with the flying experimental side, at Farnborough. That’s about forty miles south-west of London.”